The Witness
by Prynne
Summary: Team Gibbs finally catches a break in their hunt for a serial killer targeting Marine wives when the elusive murderer accidentally leaves a witness. Meanwhile, as Tony tries to form a bond with the uncooperative youth, a visit from a childhood friend forces Tony to face the dark demons of his past.
1. Running

Hi all. This plot bunny has been nagging me to write it. I couldn't resist. I hope you all enjoy reading it as much I'm enjoying writing it.

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**_Chapter 1: Running_**

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**8:00 PM**

**Anacostia Park**

**Washington, D.C.**

"Look, dude, do you want the phone or not?" the seller groused, impatiently pressing his fists to his lips and blowing warmth over his bare knuckles. "I don't got all day!"

"Is it still under Apple Care?" the buyer continued to scrutinize, ignoring the seller's petulance and chattering teeth.

"Yeah. I had it for like, eight months. You've got lots of time to extend it or whatever."

"Eight months, huh? That's a pretty short turn around."

The seller narrowed his eyes menacingly. "Like I said in the ad," he bit out. "I'm saving up for football camp."

"Football camp? Your parents can afford an iPhone, but they can't afford sports camp?"

The seller groaned inwardly. The yuppie types were always good for a game twenty questions. "I know you're like, being thorough and stuff, but…it's million degrees below zero so if you could like, make a decision, my balls would appreciate it."

The buyer smirked. "Cut the crap, Kid. You and I both know this bad boy's as hot as—what the hell?"

Two sets of eyes jerked toward a cluster of bushes and trees. From their vantage point, the buyer and the seller could make out a dark figure skulking deeper into the greenery, a naked—and very dead—woman slung over its shoulder like a burlap sack.

Her pale hands flapped listlessly in the night air. A blonde curtain of curls draped around her face. Two long legs trailed behind the figure like a cape of limp noodles.

"Holy shit," and with that, the buyer catapulted off in a bumbling dash for his car, ditching the seller and iPhone in the process.

The world seemed to stop as the phone somersaulted toward the sky and plowed onto the concrete, its glass screen exploding in a sloppy spider web. Normally the seller would've freaked about losing five hundred desperately needed dollars. But in that moment, under the illuminating scrutiny of the full moonlight, all he could think about was the frigid, malevolent glare seeping from the expanse a few terrifying feet away.

A sharp jolt of adrenaline scrambled the seller into a desperate run for his life. With his heavy backpack weighing him down, he propelled forward as he forced himself to ignore the swift, methodological footsteps matching his pace for pace.

Left foot.

Right foot.

Left.

Rig—

A brawny arm snatched his throat from behind, a cold palm slammed against his lips. The seller felt the bulge of a gun against his back. "Easy now," a surprisingly gentle voice whispered next to his ear. "I won't hurt you."

Suddenly, one his foster brothers' voices flashed across the seller's mind. _"If some asshole ever gets you in a headlock…go limp on his ass. Make 'em think ya surrenderin'. Right when he's good an' comfortable: you flip the bastard on his ass. Kick 'em as hard as ya can a' cut outta there."_

"Don't struggle. Yeah that's it," the killer encouraged when he felt the seller sag under his grasp. "Good boy."

With all his might, the seller grabbed the killer's wrist and flipped him over his shoulder onto the concrete. He dealt a swift kick to the sicko's jaw before bolting into the inky bosom of the night.

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**6:35 AM**

**Anthony DiNozzo's Apartment**

**Falls Church, VA**

Pillow Lust: The sensation special agents experience where they're so exhausted that the feeling of their face plowing into their pillow is so utterly fantastic, it's almost sexual.*

After three sleepless nights, Tony's pillow lust was generating enough heat to microwave the entire Washington Metro area. Team Gibbs was two weeks into the hunt for a serial killer targeting Marine wives and after four victims and no witnesses or DNA, the investigation was as cold as the Nor'easter freezing the East Coast. When Gibbs had finally banished his bleary-eyed team home, Tony had rushed straight into the arms of his memory foam mattress.

Tony was two hours into his orgasmic vacation in realm of Nod when the unwelcome patter of fists against his front door yanked him back to consciousness. He rolled over and checked his phone: 6:35? AM? Really?

It couldn't be Gibbs or McPunctual. Hell, even Bishop in all her awkward glory, respected the sanctity of an agent's power nap. Whoever it was could enjoy the fine facilities of Tony's hallway because he was going back to sleep. He yanked his duvet over his head and hoped the thick down feathers would muffle infuriating racket.

Alas, the wretched knocking continued.

With an incensed growl, he begrudgingly threw on his robe and stamped toward the door in an agitated fog. The pest seemed to be as tenacious as they were annoying. Maybe their loved ones could inscribe that on their tombstone.

One glance through the peephole and his blood ran cold.

The bastard actually had the audacity to show up. At Tony's house. At six in the morning!

"What the hell's the matter with you?" Tony shouted at the closed door. "I thought I made myself perfectly clear when you called, Tippy!"

Turns out Tony had been right. James "Tippy" Sherbrook IV—golden scion of his old east coast family and New York Times investigative reporter extraordinaire—was as tenacious as he was annoying. For the past six months, Tippy had blown up all avenues of Tony's communication with hopes enticing him to participate in an exposé about their old boarding school. Tony had hoped his lack of response would've given the nosey newshound a clue.

Apparently not.

"You ignored my calls, e-mails, facebook messages—hell, I even snail mailed you and you shined that on. What's up with that, DiNo?"

Tony sneered at the childhood name. He could hear the haughty indifference tinting Tippy's tone and he hated it. "You're an investigative reporter, did you ever investigate that my lack of a response was—ding, ding, ding!—my response?"

"I thought about it," Tippy admitted with air of disinterested honesty. "But then I thought about the greater good. You should try it sometime. So, gonna let me in?"

Tony scrubbed his face with his palms and desperately tried to ebb his urge to free his sidearm from his nightstand. "Tippy, I've had two hours of sleep over the course of three days," he spoke with rehearsed composure. "I'm only going to say this once: I won't help you. Now you and your ghosts for middle school hell can get back on I-95 and out of my life."

"That's exactly what it was, DiNozzo: Hell."

Tony was taken aback by the haunted earnestness rattling Tippy's voice.

Hell.

That was the understatement of the millennium.

No. No he wouldn't think about that. He wouldn't think about a bespectacled boy too unsure of himself to be sure of anyone else. He wouldn't let his mind wander to a boy craving attention, so desperate for even the tiniest kernels of affection that he'd...

No!

No, he wouldn't go back there.

"We can end it, DiNo" Tippy pressed on. "We can stand up and—"

"I can't!" Tony shouted, ashamed of his desperation. Swallowing his jagged memories, he pressed his head against the door. The wood's frosty temperature prickled his skin and cooled the hot shame roaring inside him. "I can't help you, Tippy."

"Can't or won't?"

The ringing of Tony's cell phone severed the answer on its owner's tongue.

Gibbs.

"Yeah, Boss. Be there in twenty."

"Saved by the serial killer, huh?" Tippy's characteristic smirk was back in his voice. "You know, DiNozzo, Katherine Porter said 'the past is never where you think you left it.' I'll be in touch."

Tony didn't even stick around to hear Tippy's footsteps trickle away from his door. He fed Kate and Ziva, showered and dressed. He drove to café on autopilot, trying to avoid forlorn green eyes of the boy in the rearview mirror.

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******7:42AM**

**Anacostia Park**

**Washington, D.C.**

"We sure it's him?" Tony asked, thrusting a coffee cup in a grateful Tim's McGee's hand.

Tim took a much-needed sip of caffeine as the two agents fell into a synchronized stride toward latest, and hopefully the last, victim. "Blonde military wife raped and strangled with a phone cord then buried in a shallow grave in a public place. It's him, Tony."

Tony sighed and rubbed his jaw, attempting to scourge away the weariness that tightened it. "Does victim number five have a name?"

"Trina Phillips-Villalobos. Twenty-five. No kids like the others. Husband is Corporal Emilio Villalobos. He's a field wireman at Quantico. He's going to meet us at the Navy Yard."

DiNozzo surveyed the scene with a stoic eye that dwindled rapidly into disgust the deeper he walked into the bush. Ducky and Palmer were crouched over the naked corpse, engrossed in their work. Gibbs was a few feet away, barking orders at a flustered Bishop.

"Liver temperature places her death between twelve and fourteen hours ago," Ducky spoke as he examined the body. "The ligature marks indicate strangulation as the cause of death. These parallel lines are consistent with the pattern left by the phone cord used on his previous victims. As with the others, he didn't kill her here. He buried her with her ID in a shallow and unobstructed grace. He wanted us to find and identify her…"

While Ducky talked, Tony couldn't help but stare into the bright, hollow pits of Trina's unseeing blue eyes. Her manicured brows were frozen in horrified confusion, as if she couldn't fathom how someone could be capable such brutality.

As his eyes gingerly trailed down to the mosaic of bruises and blood darkening her thighs, Tony realized he couldn't understand either.

"DiNozzo!"

His head jerked upward and toward the familiar gruffness of Gibbs' voice. Gibbs beckoned Tony over with an urgent wave to where he and Bishop were hovering above an iPad. Tony immediately jogged over, grateful for the distraction.

"It looks our guy finally left a witness," Bishop barreled ahead before Gibbs could shape his lips to speak. "The joggers who found the body stumbled on this," she pointed to the cracked iPhone in the evidence bag dangling in Gibbs' hand. "The witness probably saw our psycho in action and dropped his phone when he fled."

From Gibbs' narrowed eyes and his tight grip on his cup, Tony sensed his boss' exasperation at Bishop taking the lead. For her part, Ellie Bishop was oblivious to the blue death glare Gibbs had aimed at her forehead. She fired off her findings in a frenetic frenzy, blissfully unaware of her colleagues' waning patience.

"Gibbs usually runs point," Tony interrupted with feigned gentleness.

"Huh?" Bishop's features scrambled into a befuddled frown.

"Gibbs: leader. You: probie."

At least she had decency to blush. "Sorr—"

Gibbs shot Tony a chastising glare over the rim of his cup. " 'Never apologize. It's a sign of weakness,' " he rattled off with a needled sigh. "Go on, Bishop."

"Right," she snuck a glance at Tony and cleared her throat. "Well, uh…maybe Abby can lift some fingerprints off the screen and home button but it might be a long shot. Even if he had a criminal record, the DC Metro only fingerprints juveniles arrested for felonies."

"Our witness is a kid?"

Bishop turned the iPad toward Tony. "Looks about twelve or thirteen."

The footage was grainy and stuttering, as if shot in the 1930s. The black-and-white palette gave Tony an eerie, James Whale horror flick vibe. Suddenly, like a flash of light, a lanky figure darted across the screen like a photon. Almost out of the camera's watchful eye, the runner jerked to a halt. He dropped his hands to his knees, obviously panting. After a moment he stood, clutching his side, and looked straight into the lens of the camera.

A disturbing familiarity washed over Tony.

Those eyes: almond shaped and slightly slanted like a cat's. Framed by delicately arched brows and prominent cheekbones.

Those eyes: Anthony DiNozzo had seen them before.

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**Thank you for reading! **

This is my first time trying to balance a case fic and a subplot, so any and all feedback is eagerly appreciated.

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**Some notes:**

*The term "Pillow lust" isn't mine. Complements of Urban Dictionary, folks. I just edited the definition to fit the story.

*The plot is inspired by one of my favorite shows. I won't spill which one, as I don't want to spoil everything, but as the plot progresses and the parallels become more obvious, I'll name the show.

*I'll update every Thursday. I'm in school, so if my schedule permits, I'll update twice week. I respond reviewers within two days. I also send thank yous to subscribers so prepare your inboxes, folks. :)

And with that, I'll shut up now.


	2. The Artful Dodger

Hi all. Thank you for all the lovely reviews, favorites, and follows! I'm so grateful for all the support! Love to those of you who submitted anonymous feedback. I would've sent you individual replies if I could.

**To the anonymous reviewer concerned about Bishop's role in the story: **have no fear, I won't write her with Wesley Crusher like über skills. I don't have the greatest handle on her character so no need to worry about her taking over. However, she'll be lightly peppered throughout because she's a canon character and I don't want to omit her all together. Basically, I don't dislike her enough to ditch her, but I won't make her a Mary Sue. I hope that makes sense.

I intended to update on Wednesday, but I was a bit insecure about this chapter. I finally have a version I'm happy with. I hope you all feel the same way.

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**_Chapter 2: The Artful Dodger_**

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**9:42 AM**

**NCIS Forensic Laboratory**

**Washington, D.C.**

The jackhammer inhabiting Tony's brain was pummeling harder than usual since Tippy's unsolicited visit.

The migraines had tormented him since he was twelve. They would sneak up on him, like thieves in the night, smuggling pain through his brain's network of neurons. The barbed, vibrating clangs of the jackhammer were the immortal howls of his demons reverberating against his skull. Tony kneaded his temple with a clenched fist, but he couldn't scrub them away.

"Tony!"

He jolted back to reality to find Abby glaring at him impatiently. "Sorry Abs," he cleared his throat and smiled sheepishly. "What were you saying?"

Abby scrutinized him like a doctor checking for symptoms. "You okay? You look kinda lost."

"Lost? Nah," he chuckled dismissively. "Just tired."

She folded her arms and propped up an incredulous brow. "Sure about that?"

"Very," he yawned for good measure. "So, get anything good for me?"

She gave an unconvinced snort, but moved on. "But of course," Abby grinned accomplishedly and flicked on her monitors. "I've got two awesome forensic finds for you. Ready?"

"Hit me."

She socked him in the arm.

Tony scowled at the slight throb in his bicep. "Really?"

"_Anyway, _awesome find one: prints. Three unique patterns of whorls and lines. Two belong to adults, one belongs to our mystery munchkin."

"Any hits on the kid?"

"Patience, my child. Okay, so kiddie criminal prints aren't stored in federal databases and since Metro PD guards anything juvenile related like the Colonel guarded his original recipe, I had to work some serious mojo to get his prints run through the Department of Youth Rehabilitation Services."

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose as he felt the jackhammer rev up. "Please don't tell me you illegally accessed DYRS' database?"

"Of course I didn't! What do you take me for?"

"Uh…I'll take 'tech genius who's been known to hack her way through red tape' for three hundred, Alex."

Her eyes lit up. "So you think I'm a genius?"

"The task at hand: focus on it."

"Right, the wee felon. For once I didn't 'hack my way through red tape', I inveigled my way through it."

" 'Inveigled', huh?' Sounds painful."

"It was. An old friend from college works in DYRS' records department. I told him his new hair plugs look luscious and natural, he gave me the file I needed, and I agreed to let him buy me dinner. All of that would technically be harmless, except he has the table manners of a peckish pirate."

"So what booty did Jack Sparrow procure?"

"The kid's file. Meet Cornelius Griffin Forsythe, thirteen going on fourteen, and a ward of the District of Columbia. Metro busted him with three stolen iPhones last year. He served six months for felony theft in the first degree at the Youth Services Center before being released to a DYRS group home in Anacostia. I already text you the address."

One click of her mouse and the boy's intake photo shimmered into view. Tony absently noticed the nutmeg-colored freckles scattered liberally across the boy's nose and cheeks. He barely took in the unkempt black hair and the thin, unsmiling mouth.

However, those eyes, clearer now, had Tony's unbridled attention. They reminded him of corroded pennies: copper peppered with generous speckles of green. He combed his past, searching for the source of the nagging sense of familiarity. A memory flickered, but dissipated in the sleep-deprived haze of his mind.

"Tony?"

He shook his head to clear the fog. "You said you had two adult prints?"

"That I did. I present awesome forensic find two: Lindsay Baker and Michael Manning," another click of her mouse revealed two DMV photos. "Lindsay reported her phone stolen two weeks ago. A kid swiped it on the Metro."

"Let me guess, Cornelius?"

"Give the man a prize! The kid's also an iPhone fence. That's where Manning comes in."

Tony took in the blond man's thick beard, wayfarer frames, and ironic hipster hair. "He was the kid's buyer."

"Bingo. Which is pretty frickin' fortuitous because he may have seen something too. You guys can question him at the juice bar where he works."

"Awesome work, Abs."

Abby frowned and swept him with an appraising look. "You look awful."

The sarcastic 'thanks' was knocked off his lips by the thud of her body crashing into his. They stayed that way for beat before she pulled away and cupped his face in her palms. He struggled to keep it together under her probing gaze.

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not. But whatever it is, if you wanna talk about it: I'm here."

"There's nothing to talk about, but thanks."

"Fine, be like that. Anyway, I suggest you head upstairs before Gibbs starts divvying out tasks. You wouldn't wanna get stuck canvassing with good 'ol Bishop, would you?"

* * *

"And DiNo took off like Usain Bolt for the bathroom, holding the seat of his pants the whole way!"

Of the things Tony expected to see when he stepped into the bullpen, Tippy Sherbrook chatting up McGee and Bishop wasn't one of them. The smug bastard was sprawled out, making himself completely at home in Tony's chair—Ferragamos on the desk, hands mused in his designer haircut, holding court like he owned the place.

He was so dead!

"DiNo! We were wondering when you'd show up."

"What the hell are you doing here?"

McGee grinned impishly. "Tippy was telling us about the time he put chocolate ex-lax in your Yoo-hoo."

"Shouldn't you be working McGossipmonger? And you," he shot Tippy a contemptuous glare. "Get your muckraking ass outta my chair."

"You'd actually need fame for me to be a muckraker," Tippy quipped and remained seated. "Besides, can't a guy come see his federal tax dollars at work?

"No," Tony snapped and turned to McGee. "Where's Gibbs?"

"Notifying Corporal Villalobos in the conference room. Poor guy, they were thinking about starting a family. Anything on the witness?"

"Abs fou—"

"—So he finally left a witness, eh?" Tippy injected, grinning at Tony's agitated scowl. "You guys had better work fast, then. As thorough as he sounds, I'm sure he's looking to tie up his loose ends. I'd bet my reputation—"

"Sorry Tippy, there's a ten-cent minimum. So why don't you and your alleged reputation take a hike?"

"Oh, lighten up, DiNo. This is just a friendly visit. It's not like I'm here to collect on what you owe me."

"Good luck with that," McGee scoffed. "Tony still hasn't paid back the twenty bucks he borrowed from me four years ago."

"What he owes me is worth far more than money. Isn't that right, DiNo?"

Before he could stop himself, Tony snatched Tippy out of the chair by the lapels of his jacket, bringing the reporter's face to within mere inches of his own. "Leave. Now."

McGee frowned at the darkness in Tony's tone. He glanced over at Bishop for support, but she was too engrossed in her headphones and laptop to notice the cold war waging in the bullpen. "What's going—"

"—Tippy's going. Out the door. Right, 'friend'?"

"Is there a problem here?"

Tony jumped at the sound of Gibbs' voice behind him. His spine instinctively straightened as he let go of a smirking Tippy. "No Boss," Tony tacked on a smile and turned around. "Tippy here was just leaving."

"Ahh, you must be the formidable Agent Gibbs," Tippy straightened his jacket and snaked his hand around Tony toward Gibbs. "Tippy Sherbrook, New York Times."

Gibbs eyed the outstretched palm, inspecting it like a UN weapons official. He shook the hand, albeit lightly. "Here about the case?"

"Nope, Agent DiNo's an old friend…"

"Then I suggest you play catch up on your own time."

"Message received, Agent Gibbs," he nodded, his trademark grin in tact. "It was nice meeting you, sir. Likewise, Agent McGee…Bishop."

Spinning on the ball of his foot, Tippy wordlessly marched toward the main elevator. He stopped short of pressing the down button and turned around.

"Hey DiNo, I'll be in town for a few weeks following up on some leads for my story. We should catch up. Dinner, maybe? My time, my treat?"

"No means no, Tippy. You should know that better than anyone."

Tippy didn't bat an eyelash. "See you around, DiNo."

"Wanna tell me what that was about, DiNozzo?"

Tony searched for the wrong words, the words that would give Gibbs nothing to read into. The right words, brimming with a truth he wasn't ready to spill swayed in front of him. He blinked them away.

"Kid stuff, Boss."

"Good, because we've got a witness to track down. What'd Abby get off the phone?"

Tony nodded his gratitude for Gibbs' willingness to let it slide. He regurgitated Abby's findings, steeling his face into a neutral expression. The jackhammer drilled on, the demons of the past howling in Tippy's wake.

"Bishop, McGee: talk to Michael Manning. Bishop, bring your sketchpad. Hopefully he saw something that'll help us nail the bastard. DiNozzo, with me."

"On your six, Boss."

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**10:50 AM**

**McNevin Youth Crisis Shelter**

**Anacostia, Washington, D.C.**

McNevin was a drab mass of brick and concrete. Located east of the Anacostia river, the twelve bed facility housed troubled boys in a structured, homelike residential setting. However, the grassless yard and towering iron gate gave Tony prison vibes instead of homey ones. The sea of ramshackle row houses surrounding the shelter was the only indications of a residential area.

"NCIS, huh?" Chad Westlake, McNevin's Housing Case Manager, asked with detached interest as he focused on his laptop instead of the agents across from him. "So, what sailor did Cory mug?"

Tony surveyed the man's small office with a pained look. It was a crevice of disarray. The dilapidated faux mahogany desk was littered with mounds of manila folders and empty coffee cups. The air hung heavy with the acrid smell of cigarettes and hopelessness.

His mind dragged him into a similar office. The distant memory of an apathetic adult jerked to the forefront. Tony quickly whisked it away.

"We believe Cory witnessed a murder," Gibbs replied evenly. "We need to talk to him."

Chad scoffed, frowning at them over the rim of his laptop. "That won't end well," he rolled his bloodshot eyes as he fumbled around for his coffee. "There's two kinds of people these kids don't talk to: social workers and cops."

"I'm surprised he hasn't responded to your special brand of sympathy," Tony deadpanned.

"Not for lack of trying," Chad rejoined hotly. Emitting an audible breath, he stretched his short arms and knotted his fingers into two fists before placing them on the cluttered desktop. "That boy's been in foster care since he was five. There's documented evidence of chronic physical abuse in his file—and that's just what a medical examination could prove. Kids like Cory, who've been disappointed by most, if not all, of the adults in their lives aren't going to open up just because we want them to."

"If it's all the same to you, we'd still like to try."

"It's your rodeo, Agent Gibbs," Chad stood and moved for the door. "Just hang onto your wallets. The boy's got lighter fingers than the Artful Dodger."

Moments later, a frazzled Chad returned with a teenager that obviously wasn't Cory. Sporting a giant tangle of blond dreadlocks and clothes eighty sizes too big for him, the boy ran his brown eyes over Gibbs and Tony, assessing their faces like a chessboard.

"Go on, Ricky. Tell them what you told me."

"What's in it for me? I mean, come on, ya don't expect me to narc out my roomie for free, do ya?"

Tony smirked. "How about an all expenses paid vacation to YSC for obstruction of justice if you don't talk."

"Hey man, no need to get litigious. As I was telling my den mother here, Cory snuck out after curfew last night. He never came back."

Gibbs' aimed a cold stare at Chad. "You don't do bed checks?"

"We're not incompetent, Agent Gibbs!"

"Actually ya kinda are," Ricky grinned cheekily. "But if it makes ya feel better, Cory's actually pretty smart."

"Ricky, I swear, if you don't talk I'll make sure you don't see another shower token for a month!"

"Okay, okay! It's not my fault you suck at your job, Westbrook. Anyway, everybody knows the RAs do bed checks in fifteen-minute intervals. All they do is poke their heads in and call our names. Cory just recorded himself saying 'here' and set a phone to play the recording every fifteen minutes. It was awesome as far as escape plans go," Ricky grinned up at Chad. "I might try it some time."

Chad was too embarrassed to look the agents in the eye. "I'm going to escort this one back to his room. See yourselves out."

"The kid's a regular Ferris Bueller, Boss."

"Yeah, well, he's going to be a dead Ferris Bueller if we don't find him before the killer does."

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**Thank you for reading! Until next time...**


	3. Wounds

*Waves sheepishly.* I owe you all an apology for my lack of timely updates. I took on a heavy course load this go round and all the work drove a lorry through my free time. However, things have cooled down so I have much more time to write.

Love to my readers, reviewers, subscribers and those who favorited. You have all been so generous with your time and attention. I'm having a great time with this story. I hope you all continue to enjoy reading!

*edited and re-posted.*

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_**Chapter 3: Wounds**_

* * *

**11:42 AM**

**Outside NCIS Headquarters**

**Washington Navy Yard**

"Isn't that your little reporter friend?"

Tony followed Gibbs' finger across the foggy expanse and groaned. There was Tippy, flopped across one of the benches in front of headquarters like an unstringed marionette. His jacket was splayed open, exposing his Egyptian cotton shirt to the thick, unrelenting raindrops spewing from the angry sky. His head was lolled back; a silver flask nestled between his thighs. Tony jogged ahead of Gibbs, hoping to run the nuisance off before the boss got involved. As Tony approached, the harsh stench of whiskey snaked into his nostrils and churned his stomach.

"Really, Tippy? _Really? _Congratz, you've stooped to a new low," Tony hissed, giving the other man's shoe a kick for good measure. "What the hell are you doing back here?"

"Waiting, obviously," Tippy enunciated perfectly, grey eyes gleaming with a brumal arrogance. "I have something for you."

Tony rolled his eyes. Even strong booze couldn't take the prat down a peg. "I thought I was perfectly clear: I'm not helping—"

"Oh, trust me, you will."

"Listen, you autocratic son of a—"

A gruff voice interrupted Tony's fury. "I thought I told you to play catch up on your own time, Sherbrook."

"Agent Gibbs," Tippy straightened and smiled guilefully. "I apologize for the intrusion."

"Never apologize, it's a sign of weakness," Gibbs grunted, scowling at the cloud of whiskey vapor wafting from the other man's pores. He took a sip of coffee, glaring at Tippy over the plastic rim. "In your case I hope it's a sign you're leaving."

"Oh, this'll be quick," Tippy replied with feigned politeness as he reached into the brown leather satchel beside him. He produced a manila envelope and thrust it toward Tony, grinning at his hesitant glare. "Oh relax, DiNo. There's no magic plague dust on it."

Tony kept his eyes on the envelope. "What is it?"

"Oh, just something I picked up from a source at Eggleston."

Tony instantly paled at the mention of their alma mater. A gelid gust of anger seized his fists. He stuffed them in his pockets to keep them at bay. "I told you—"

Tippy stood, invading Tony's personal space. The reporter's eyes were wintry and flat, like the frozen Potomac. Yet beneath ever-changing hues of grey and blue, Tony could see the raging waves of agony and indignation roaring beneath the ice.

He couldn't help but be reminded of a boy. A broken, gutted boy shuffling vacantly around school. His pain a constant companion, gnawing faithfully at his heels. The boy trudged on, a shroud of ice glazing his eyes, oblivious to the voices calling to him from the surface.

"Edmund Bascomb was awarded a full-time teaching fellowship at Eggleston this morning," Tippy's cold voice drew Tony from the depths of his past. "You remember Baz, don'tcha DiNo? I know _I_ haven't forgotten."

The memories sloshed and swirled, a teeming tornado of images twisted and tugged viciously. The shrill screams of Funkadelic's 'Maggot Brain' pulsated against Tony's skull. The bass of his teenage fists pounding desperately against the Red Camero's hot, foggy windows vibrated his brain. The squalling guitar, the sour laughter, the salty tears—all writhed like leaves in the sharp wind of Tony's regrets.

"What do ya say, Agent Gibbs?" Tippy jeered, eyes glued to Tony's. "Think he remembers?"

"You need to go," Gibbs' voice hardened to steel. "Now."

"He starts in the fall," Tippy twisted the knife. "Sixth grade. Pre-Algebra."

"That's enough, Sherbrook!"

"Is Gibbs right, DiNo? Is it enough to make you understand what's at stake and why I need you to fix it?"

Oh, Tony understood all right. But understanding didn't obscure the revolting images or deafen the sickening sounds. There was definitely logic embedded in Tippy's agenda. Unfortunately, logic wouldn't help Tony sleep at night.

"I...I can't..."

He turned and ran inside, leaving a blustering Tippy and concerned Gibbs in his wake.

Gibbs angled his head at Tippy, narrowing his eyes as he closed the distant between them. "I don't know what you're trying to do…"

"True," Tippy conceded evenly. "You don't. You don't even _begin—"_

"—I don't care about that. I care about him."

Tippy scoffed. "Let's see how long that lasts."

Gibbs lips spread into a cool, keen line. "You're done. Stay away."

"Not a chance, Agent Gibbs," Tippy bared his teeth in a feral grin. "DiNo—"

"His name is Tony."

"You say 'Tony', I say tomato," he returned the envelope to his briefcase and slung it over his shoulder. "But I'm not calling the whole thing off."

With that, he pivoted on his heel and into the fog, whistling the melody to 'Maggot Brain' as he went.

* * *

**12:00 PM**

**NCIS Men's Restroom**

**Washington Naval Yard**

Tony retched, his sweaty knuckles white from gripping the toilet seat like a lifeline. He dug frantically through his lungs, in search of desperately needed air. However, all he managed to do was send fiery clumps of bile foaming up his swollen throat.

His demons glided around him, taunting and leering. Baz Bascomb led the charge, laughing like a vulture's caw. The guitar bayed on, barely drowning out the harrowing screams.

He retched again and again, but his stomach wouldn't budge. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't rid himself of the jagged shards of shame. They would always be there, festering.

"Tony?"

Shit.

McGee.

"You in here? Gibbs wants you in autopsy. Ducky's got something."

Tony absently remembered propelling across the bullpen, barely registering McGee and Bishop's befuddled frowns as he raced for the bathroom.

"Everything all right?"

No!

"Yup," Tony lied, cringing at his croaky voice. He got off his knees and plastered on a grin. "Well, if you don't count projectile vomiting like Linda Blair in the Exorcist."

"You aren't contagious, are you?"

Tony practically heard the germophobia yank McGee's voice up an octave. "Nah, probably just bad Chinese."

"We both had Chinese!"

Yanking open the stall, Tony stumbled over to the sink and drenched his face. He stared numbly at his reflection. "My condolences."

"I don't have anymore sick da—" he paused mid whine, no doubt taking in Tony's red eyes and puffy cheeks. "What's wrong?"

"Besides a very probable and extremely inconvenient case of food poisoning, nothing."

McGee was undeterred. "Is this about Tippy?"

"No, unless the Sherbrooks have branched into the cheap Hunan take out industry."

The younger agent raked him with an unsettled eye. "I haven't seen you lose control like that in a long time."

"Tippy brings out the worst in me. Much like you going all Nurse Nightingale."

"Oh, using sarcasm to deflect," McGee folded his arms and smirked. "Wow, suddenly I believe you."

"Read my lips McNursemaid: I. Am. Fine. Now, what did you and Bishop get out of Manning?"

"Very little. He saw the killer carrying the body, but he didn't make out any distinguishable characteristics for the sketch."

"Was that fear talking?"

"Unfortunately, no. Manning was varsity track sprinter in high school. As soon as he saw and I quote 'a dude carrying a chick over his shoulder like bag of laundry' he got out of there 'faster than Martha Stewart sold her stock in ImClone'."

"So he left the kid and the killer in his dust. What a stand up guy. So, I saw you and Bishop holding a nerdtastic campfire over at your computer. What'd you turn up?"

"Abby's buddy at DYRS was able to forward Cory's entire case file from the D.C. Child and Family Services Agency. Before DYRS, he was in CFSA foster care starting at eight."

"His case manager at McNevin said he's been in foster care since he was five."

"He's been a ward of _D.C._ since he was eight. Before that, he was a ward of the Commonwealth of Virginia under the care of Botetourt County Department of Social Services. His foster parents were Neil and Cordelia Forsythe of Daleville, Virginia."

"How'd he wind up in a system over two hundred miles away?"

"We're working on that. For some reason, his Botetourt County files are sealed. All we know is he was removed from the Forsythes in June '08 and placed in a D.C. group home that August. We're checking into all of his old placements. Maybe he stayed in touch with some people, hopefully trusted somebody enough to turn to."

Tony clasped his shoulder. "Nice job."

"Listen, Tony. I know you don't like being—"

"Coddled? Annoyed?"

"Please, you love being the pampered center of attention. Seriously, I'm not trying to pry…"

"Yes you are, but thanks. I'm glad you care. Now, out damn spot! You know Gibbs doesn't like to be kept waiting."

* * *

**12:16 PM**

**NCIS Autopsy**

**Washington Navy Yard**

"Ah, Tony. How nice of you to join us."

"Sorry about that, Ducky. I had a biological matter to attend to."

"I trust you're in good health."

Tony struggled to keep his cool under Gibbs' probing scrutiny. He squared his shoulders and looked his boss in the eye "Just a bug. Nothing I can't handle."

"Hmm. Well, there is that rather nasty flu going round. Do you have a fever? Experiencing chills? If you still feel grotty in an hour or so, do let—"

"Duck, if he says he's fine," Gibbs looked pointedly at Tony. "He's fine. Back to the body."

"Yes, poor Mrs. Villalobos. Take a look at her left arm, won't you. Do you see this?"

'This' was a red patchwork of dry, flaky skin. Some areas were small, angry isles of sores, rusty with the dried blood. A river of thin, crimson lines connected the areas like an abounding river.

Tony shrugged, "Looks like eczema to me."

"I thought so too. However, further examination found several blisters and lesions in various stages of healing on her back and thighs. They resembled a sunburn."

"Hasn't been sunny for months, Duck."

"Precisely, Jethro. I believe she was having a Porphyria flare up."

Tony glanced between the body and the medical examiner. "Uh, in laymen's terms…"

"Porphyrias are a group of rare, familial genetic disorders, in which heme, an important part of hemoglobin, is not properly produced. I'm quite sure she was unaware of her condition."

"Why, Duck?"

"Well, when I had Abby perform some blood work to confirm my suspicion, she discovered small traces of fetal cells in Mrs. Phillips-Villalobos' blood stream."

"She was pregnant? Ah, man. Tim mentioned she and her husband were eager—"

"No, she wasn't pregnant, Tony. A circumstance she achieved through medical means."

"She had an abortion?"

"Yes, a medical abortion via what's colloquially referred to as the abortion pill."

"When, Duck?"

"Judging by the age of the scabbed sores and the small amount of residual cells in her bloodstream, I'd say the procedure couldn't have been more than a month and a half ago. Since the pill was used, she wasn't more than twelve weeks along. "

"How do the sores play into this?"

"Ah, yes, they were the tell-tell sign, Tony. I believe the procedure's Mifepristone–misoprostol combination regimen engendered a Porphyrias flare up. Had a physician been aware of her condition, he or she wouldn't have prescribed the regimen as Porphyrias is a contraindicate, or an indication that Medical Abortion should not be used in the case in question."

"Okay, that's awesome work Dr. Sherlock, but I smell an episode of the Maury show a-comin' 'cause Corporal Villalobos hasn't been on American soil long enough to conceive that kid."

"Ah, yes, the fetor of infidelity is definitely about."

"Yeah, but a jilted lover doesn't explain the other four women, Duck."

"True. However, I'll wager that if you dig into her whereabouts while her husband was abroad, you'll find more answers. Perhaps she encountered her killer before that fateful night. "

Gibbs' cell phone took that moment to vibrate. "Yeah, McGee. We'll be right up," he flipped his phone shut and turned to Tony. "They've got a lead on the boy."

* * *

"One of Bishop's NSA contacts got us access to the kid's unsealed file," McGee started as soon as Gibbs and Tony exited the elevator. "Turns out, Cory Forsythe didn't magically appear in Washington. He was brought by a concerned neighbor."

"This is Stover Lee MacDonald," Bishop flicked on the plasma and the team was greeted with a ruddy, wind-carved face beaming at them from the old man's DMV photo. "MacDonald had a farm…did I just say that?"

"E-I-E-I-O," Tony quipped. "So, I'm guessing on his farm he had a neighbor?"

"The Forsythe's estate was four miles down the road," she continued. "According to Virginia state court affidavits, MacDonald drove the boy to the emergency room at Washington Hospital Center after discovering bruises and lacerations on his back, ribs, and legs."

"Okay, so why drive two hundred miles to an emergency room?" Tony asked.

"Apparently Forsythe is a powerful name in Botetourt County," she answered. "Neil Forsythe was the family's golden boy and heir apparent. MacDonald didn't want to make waves for fear of retaliation."

"And he was right," McGee added. "Not long after Neil and his wife were convicted of felony cruelty to a child, ol' MacDonald lost his farm and was practically run out of town."

"Where's he now?"

McGee looked up from his phone. "Twenty miles away in a retirement community in Rockville, Boss. I'm texting the address now."

"If that kid went anywhere, it was to his savior. That's good work Bishop, McGee," Gibbs nodded his approval on his way to the elevator. "DiNozzo, with me."

"Right behind ya, Boss."

* * *

-One, I recommend you guys listen to Maggot Brain. Because A: Eddie Hazel was a God among men. B: It'll really help you understand Tony's mood and memories.

-Two, if any medical professionals, students, or enthusiasts read the scene in autopsy and flew into a rage about the inaccurate writing—my apologies. It was a mixture of Mayo Clinic, an article published in a medical journal, and AP Bio talking. Don't shoot the medium!

-Last, but certainly not least: **Thank you for reading!** If possible, please leave some feedback. This is my first case fic and while I'm enjoying it, I'm anxious to hear how it's working for you. Thank you and until next time...


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